


Your Mouth Is Poison

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, M/M, Power of Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like a string connects them, in the middle of particular gazes, because Zayn swears he feels a tug around his navel, from an invisible red string looped around him. It's a belief Zayn's always found fascinating, and he never knew it could be possible. He still tries to say he doesn't understand it entirely, until Harry looks at him from across a crowded room, again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Mouth Is Poison

Zayn knows they're going to fuck when their eyes lock a certain way.  
  
It's like a string connects them, in the middle of those particular gazes, because Zayn swears he feels a tug around his navel, from an invisible red string looped around him. It's a belief Zayn's always found fascinating, and he never knew it could be possible. He still tries to say he doesn't understand it entirely, until Harry looks at him from across a crowded room, again.  
  
Zayn knows, because he sees the look in Harry's eyes sometimes, sees Harry see the look in his own eyes. They used to say they were too powerless to stop it, back when it was fun and harmless, when they wore matching bracelets on stage, when they playfully slapped at each other during interviews.  
  
The first time, they had both kissed two random birds in a club, mouths slick and glittery from lipgloss, tongues pink, tears in their eyes from laughter. They locked eyes in the hotel afterwards and suddenly the red string knotted, a tug. Harry fell to his knees and with shaking fingers, undid Zayn's belt. Zayn's eyes crossed, the first time he felt Harry's breath on him, the first time Harry grabbed at the back of his thighs to steady himself. Zayn held his hair in both hands, held on like handle bars of his first bicycle, afraid if he let go, he'd fall on his ass with a red face to match.  
  
Harry told him afterwards, under the thin hotel blanket, that he knew Zayn wanted it too, because of how Zayn looked at him. _I saw that look and I swear I couldn't stop. Does that make sense?_  
  
It made sense, because afterwards, whenever their eyes locked, sometimes it was in the middle of a joke, or during a group dinner, or when someone said something so unbelievably stupid, Zayn needed to share his silent judgement with someone and sought out Harry. And those moments were fine, because they were friends, _best friends yeah?_ and Zayn was happy for that.

But other times, their eyes found each other and they both knew, they both felt the red string, and before either of them could stop, Harry would be shoving Zayn into a toilet.

  
  
***

  
It's never what the say, but how they say it.  
  
It's not the words, it's the intent.  
  
Because the two of them, as a pair, as time went on, rarely used their words, not when it mattered. When they were young, they used to chatter and quip and kick up dust, their conversations would last so long, words and phrases and jokes from American films running side by side, their cheeks pink, their smiles lit up. But as time went on, as they grew apart, grew up, when Harry's name became synonymous with newspaper headlines and Zayn met a girl with bubble gum hair, their words fell apart as well.  
  
So when they did speak, when it held weight, Zayn sometimes had to remember the meaning.  
  
The first time Zayn said _You think you're really funny, don't you,_ Harry had grabbed a wig backstage from Lou, some purple thing she had for some odd reason during the first tour, and ran around catering in nothing but that and his pants.  
  
Zayn clutched his side, laughter dripping from his mouth like only Harry could pull from him, and he said it. Because Harry did think he was funny, thought he was the funniest bastard they knew, and some days Zayn could argue that, but other days Harry Styles was the funniest boy he'd ever laid eyes on. Harry giggled and laughed and flew above Zayn, with his arms wide and open, like the world owed him something, like Zayn never could. Zayn stood with his arms across his body, or at his sides.  
  
But the last time Zayn said _You think you're really funny, don't you,_ Harry had grabbed for him at an after party, something the label threw, his hands on Zayn's hips from behind, his face in Zayn's neck, in front of their bosses and their colleagues, whispered something filthy to him.  
  
Zayn shoved him away, shoved him hard, and Harry looked at him, looked right through him, their eyes doing that thing, their string tightening too quickly, before they drunkenly shuffled away to a closet. Zayn said it into Harry's mouth, bit him, as Harry undid his own jeans, that Harry thought he was so fucking funny, doing that shit in front of people, when he knew Zayn was trying to be better, for Perrie, because he really does love her, and Harry didn't respond. He just turned around and shoved his pants to his knees.  
  
The _I love you_ s started when they were children, first when the five of them clung to each other with chubby fingers not used to holding microphones, but then for the two of them eventually devolved into hugs and finally kisses. Zayn said it into Harry's hair, when they curled up in his bunk. Harry said it against Zayn's back, the first time Harry slipped into him, the first time Harry held him down, and Zayn could barely hear it over the rushing of blood in his ears. They said it through text, sometimes, when they felt desperate, when they were far apart, and the meaning was clear, because they weren't stupid.  
  
Harry said _I fucking love you_ when they stumbled into Zayn's guest bathroom, during a party Perrie wanted to throw to celebrate the engagement, after the premiere and the interviews, after it all died down, just their close friends and family. Harry said it with disdain, the resentment practically choking him, as Zayn collapsed to his knees at Harry's feet. Harry said it over and over, as Zayn sucked him off, his grunts caught in his chest as Harry held his head, held him close, Zayn's oxygen restricted. He said it, and he hated that he did, Zayn knew, because he didn't want to, not anymore, and Zayn couldn't blame him. The meaning was there.  
  
The _I hate you_ s started around then. Harry whispered it whenever they had a break from an interview, when Perrie's name got brought up, when Zayn smiled through it even as he could feel, actually physically feel, Harry's anger. Harry slapped Zayn's face once, when Zayn tried to say sorry, and he hated Zayn then. Zayn hated Harry whenever their eyes locked, during the last leg of the tour, when Zayn was trying to be better, again. _I fucking hate you, this is it, I fucking swear._  
  
And it was. For awhile.  
  
But eventually the sounds of Harry's belt, of Zayn's zipper, those sounds became the soundtrack on which those words laid, the _I love you_ s and the _I hate you_ s mixed together, over and over, on a loop, in toilets and dressing rooms and hotel beds. They hated each other to the point of exhaustion, but their red string kept getting tangled, kept tightening and loosening, on a loop as well.

  
  
***

  
It's a strange thing, loving two people, and also hating one.  
  
The engagement was supposed to help. Telling Harry to stop looking at him was supposed to help. It was all supposed to fix whatever was broken. But Harry glares at him when Zayn can't stop the look in his eyes, when he can't help it.  
  
So their words become worse, harsher, when they shove against each other, when Zayn's hands slide up Harry's back under his stupid fucking shirts, when Harry's nails dig in a little too hard as he shoves them down the back of Zayn's jeans. _Why do you always fucking do this? Fuck you, why do you let me?_  
  
The break was supposed to help. Harry jetting off to Los Angeles for weeks at a time was supposed to help. It was all supposed to fix whatever was still broken. But Zayn glares at Harry when Harry pays attention to every person but him during rehearsals, and then on stage.  
  
They tip toe around each other, when they sing and sing and sing, in stadiums full of people who just want to see them smile, and all Zayn can think about is the ring on a girl's finger, the boy with the head scarves who still makes his head go fucking mental.  
  
So their actions become faker, twisted, when Harry walks one way and Zayn walks the other. Harry tweets bullshit lyrics, Zayn pretends not to notice, gets high, sinks further into himself. Harry practically breaks down walls with his charm.  
  
Because eventually, over time, slowly like a trickle, it stops. Completely. Finally.  
  
The last time Zayn said something without malice, without any deeper meaning, without his lungs constricting because he was angry and yelling during a fight, or antsy and coming inside Harry under the stage, was as they hugged before break, before North America. _I'll see you soon._ And when Harry pulled away, stepped out of the hug, his hair long, his hat askew, he stared at Zayn, looked right through him, his lip shaking.  
  
 _I'll see you soon, Zayn. I look forward to it._  
  
He walked away, and Zayn was fucked, and he knew it. Because sometimes being in love with someone means hating them, hating who they make you become, what they make you do, and Zayn hates Harry so much, he aches with it.  
  
Harry wears a red string around his wrist sometimes, and Zayn pretends not to see it.

  
  
***

  
Perrie nods to the invitation on the table near the front door, made with lace, littered with flowers and a nondescript font that makes Zayn's eyes hurt, and asks if he has his suit and shoes ready to go. He feels the slight tremor in his hand.  
  
"It's pressed, yeah? Should be in the closet, love," she singsongs on her way up the stairs holding a cup of tea, with only a hint of honey. She has a show in a few hours.  
  
Zayn looks up after her, before his eyes travel back to the invitation.  
  
Because the thing is, the way it's always been, Zayn knows they're going to fuck when their eyes lock a certain way. And with every ounce of his being, every cell in his body, Zayn knows today would be one of those days. Because Harry always says the one thing he needs to hear, with his voice rough and low, when Zayn is wired and on edge, their red string knotting in all the right places.  
  
So without further thought, Zayn strays to the backyard to lay in his tent.  
  
It's quiet there.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just some things I was thinking about today.
> 
> Let's talk?  
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/this_onegoes/)  
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